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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23070049">Difficult.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leftleg/pseuds/Leftleg'>Leftleg</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Leg's Drabbles/Ficlets [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Strange (2016), Doctor Strange (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drabble, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Regret, Therapy, Yearning, its a big waste of time, kinda lol, literally nothing happens in this fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:54:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,368</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23070049</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leftleg/pseuds/Leftleg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen goes to therapy and nothing gets resolved.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Stephen Strange &amp; Original Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Leg's Drabbles/Ficlets [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657984</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Difficult.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There were two of them, he and this week's appointed therapist, sitting together in the orange square of a room as the setting sun faced them as it descended the horizon. A small metallic fan was blowing, along with the ceiling fan, both chopping the hot air in meager attempts to cool and to calm. He lay on his back, eyes closed, hands folded on his chest over his ever accompanying amulet that rested over his slowly beating heart. His body flat on the leather chaise and he listened calmly to the sounds of the environment: the metal fan’s ribbons flicking in the wind, the chops of the air from above him, the squeak of the swivel chair joints and the distress of the leather of the seat, he could even hear the ruffle of his clothing when he shifted, his eyes never shifting. </p><p>Stephen was relaxed, calm and collected as ever. Very rarely had the small things in life tested him to the point of distress. If it wasn’t some monstrous alien or a cataclysmic <em> thing </em> that threatened to wipe out humanity, then Stephen was relaxed. He was so relaxed even, that he could “see” the therapist’s aggravated gaze on him, his crossed legs, shaking foot, and tapping the pen on his scruffy cheek as he (im)patiently waited for Stephen to speak. He smiled. He was calm, his mind in a better place. He smelled daffodils and heard locusts buzz. He imagined a large field of green and yellow behind his eyelids. He held up a quick, silencing finger as if he knew that a few seconds more of silence and the man across from him would snap his thoughts. </p><p>“Patience is a virtue, Doctor.” He didn’t open his eyes, still imagining that large sea of happy yellow and spring. The other doctor closed his own eyes in agony, gripped his pen and clipboard harder.</p><p>“Mr. Strange-”</p><p>“Doctor.”</p><p>“<em> Doctor </em> Strange, I have been,” his sigh was as heavy as a dumbbell, “ <em> more </em> than patient with you this session.” His shoulders dropped.“And the other sessions.”</p><p>Stephen smiled. In his field of yellow and green, he saw a bright blue jay flutter by, playing alongside his colorful playmates, chirping and chattering happily as they chased each other like dogfighters. The therapist sighed again, leaning back into his creaking seat. He swiveled, dropping his notes and pen on his paper polluted desk behind him. The sun-drenched the room in a bright red-orange, the thick black shadow of the blinds dropped over them both like censor bars. He folded his hands under his chin, watching his client on the half-couch.</p><p>“Remind me again, Mister-<em> Doctor </em> Strange, why you still come here every other week. Are you really that set on wasting my time while I could be working with other clients? I don’t want to think it of you, from one doctor to another, you very well understand how one must be <em> patient </em> with their...patients.”</p><p>Stephen whistled, tutted as he waved his finger, scolding the other gently.</p><p>“Tut, tut, Doctor. I’ll have you know that I am <em> very </em> impatient.” he dropped his hand again, interlocking his fingers together, “As for why I come here, well, that question can be countered with the fact that you <em> let </em>me.”</p><p>“I do let you, yes.”</p><p>“Then why complain? It is your doing. Did you know that in certain religions, it is unfaithful to complain about situations you have put yourself in to?”</p><p>“Of course.”<br/>“Is that not remarkable?”</p><p>“Yes, quite.” The doctor leaned forward, his balled hands dropping between his knees, “Strange, will you or won’t you entertain these meetings?”</p><p>“Am I not, Doctor?”</p><p>“I mean with <em> useful </em> information. Things that can help me, help y-”</p><p>Stephen threw up a hand, the open, gloved palm towards the agonizing doctor, it shook slightly still, he noticed, but the leather-clad hand was thrown up to his face to silence him as a particularly enjoyable part of his dream world came about. </p><p>“Shh, shh, Doctor.” He whispered, his brows furrowing as he watched the scene unfold. The poor man that was rendered silent once again rolled his eyes. The hand closed into a fist, it shook more so now, but it was clear that Stephen held some control over the appendage.</p><p>“My that was <em> lovely, </em>” he mumbled, in a pleased awe at whatever it was the other could not see. “Simply marvelous.”</p><p>“What was?” He took the sentence by the reins, he was going to get Stephen to unleash his psyche <em> today </em>, or else he’d kill the man. “What were you seeing, Stephen?”</p><p>He hesitated, thinking of whether or not showing <em> this </em> man, this man who looked much too identical to that irksome little man that he couldn’t for the life of him, remember the name of. He figured it wouldn’t hurt the man, so with circling of his index finger, the tell-tale swish of his magic, and a mental <em> ‘Voila’ </em>, came forth a fairly small oval surrounded by a mesmerizing gold, inside, like a picture, was large mass of a green field, bright yellow flowers dotted the place and the sky was a gorgeous azure. Only the sweet wisps of clouds and fluttering birds were above it. The other man, not at all accustomed to the magic ordeal, jumped back in surprise at the floating thing, eyes quickly falling to watch the glowing gold sand hit the ground and disappear. The image itself was just as amazing- he could feel the hot air, smell the pollen, and hear the birds. He was awestruck beyond imagine.</p><p>“Good God-”</p><p>“Magnificent, yes? So beautiful it could be a stock image.”</p><p>“That’s- how did you do that?”</p><p>“Oh? Haven’t you heard?” With a simple wave, the image vanished. No more chirps or summer air, “I’m a magician. Sorcerer, if you will.”</p><p>“So-so a wizard?”</p><p>Strange didn’t look like a wizard- not in the slightest. Maybe he did have a certain air to him that was something more than human, but the way he dressed and spoke- how he carried himself was not at all like how he often imagined the run-of-the-mill <em> wizard </em>. Then again, his client was no run-of-the-mill man. He stopped his rabbit hole, just barely in time to catch Stephen’s change. Visibly, his relaxed form hardened, his hand retreated to his chest, and he shifted uncomfortably on the chaise. Suddenly, the spot that had cradled him perfectly now rejected him fully. He felt somewhat like a bad transplant being rejected after weeks of acceptance. His brows relaxed on his forehead, his weight was a tonne heavier. The therapist, noticing this sudden shift in Stephen’s aura, reached for his clipboard and pen from the desk and waited.</p><p>The sun was no longer up, now the moon, a crescent tonight, levitated above them. The neon street lights and the general white noise of city lights illuminated the square office. The room was now colder significantly- the fans were doing more harm than good. He reached for the fan, clicked it off, the ribbons falling swiftly to hang dully. He never once stopped watching his client, waiting for him to pull another trick.  Stephen shot up another hand, pointed as he spoke.</p><p>“What did you call me?”<br/>“A wizard? I didn’t mean to offend-”</p><p>“That’s your problem, you didn’t <em> mean </em> to offend when instead, you should’ve aimed that way weeks ago.”</p><p>The therapist stirred. “It’s not my job to offend-”</p><p>“Offend away. You’ve opened my wounds.” He sighed.</p><p>The doctor leaned forward to listen but reclined back as his client sat up abruptly on the chair, his broad shoulders drooping as he did so. Stephen turned himself to face the other doctor fully, a sobering look of distress etched on his features. The doctor noticed that all of the sudden, Stephen looked his age, whatever said age truly was, he couldn’t tell, but he certainly looked years older than when he had entered the office space. He swallowed as he met eyes with his client, noticing that they had an inner shine to them, nothing like the watering of tears, but of excitement or deep joy. Perhaps Stephen was ready to release whatever it was inside him, but to keep the brooding man on his plane of thought and existence, he reached out to Stephen with nervous fingers and placed his hand on his knee.</p><p>“Doctor?”</p><p>“Did you know that I had a sister once upon a time? I had a sister, and-and <em> parents </em>. Did you know that?”</p><p>The other nodded understandingly, “Yes, of course.”</p><p>Stephen’s lip twitched, a sad second of a smirk. He stood, the other’s hand reeling back to his lap and clipboard. He suddenly didn’t want to do his job anymore, just wanted to listen and hear Stephen’s words, not jot them down like an emotionless scientist studying an animal. He waited until Strange walked around the chaise, and drifted towards the open window that showcased the noisy city below, and the bright crescent of the moon to start scribbling notes. Stephen didn’t say a word as he looked up with tired eyes at the moon, then down at the people below.  </p><p>“How was your childhood, Doctor?” He asked Strange from his seat, having twisted in his swivel chair to watch the back of the other man. Strange chuckled.</p><p>“<em> My </em> childhood? What a laughable thought. <em> Childhood </em>.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It was...dastardly.” </p><p>The doctor wrote this down.</p><p>“See, when I was a child, I didn’t have moral guidance. No,” he sighed, “I had doubt, scorn, and reckless abandon.”</p><p>He looked back at the other doctor, who watched him at the window. Strange looked to him, like an ancient Roman pillar- strong, upright and old as time itself, but also, with this old strength, he was significantly damaged. Pieces were broken from him, pieces of a life that was once bright like October skies, but at some point turned gray and sick. </p><p>“Your family, Dr.Strange?”  He asked just above a whisper. Strange smiled. </p><p>“My family?” he repeated. He thought about it. A family. <em> His </em>family. He brought his hands behind his back.</p><p>“My family...would be sweet. A child or two, I always figured I was good with children. I used to think that maybe a wife was in my future, but given how things became, that seems null. But my family it-it would be <em> generic: </em>child, dog, spouse and-” he laughed, “a little house on the prairie.”</p><p>The therapist shifted uncomfortably.</p><p>“No, Strange...I mean your <em> family </em>. Your mother, your father-”</p><p>“I know. I was trying to divert and deflect but you are surprisingly perceptive.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“I don't want to talk about my family.”</p><p>“Why not, Doctor?”</p><p>“For the same reasons you are advised not to play with a spirit board in a graveyard.  Dangerous. Unpredictable.” He looked back at his doctor, who only stared at him with a new fondness.</p><p>“Doctor Strange…”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>The therapist blinked slowly, feeling that the sudden openness of Strange was regressing back into their beginning stages. Slowly, he asked for about the hundredth time: “Why do you come to these sessions?”</p><p>“Why?” He shrugged, “I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the company- the conversation.”</p><p>“So, you’re lonely?”</p><p>Stephen scoffed and forced out a loud chortle of clearly fake laughter, “<em>Lonely?</em> <em>Me?</em> Never.”</p><p>“Stephen it’s okay to admit it.”</p><p>“I’m not lonely.”</p><p>“And how do you know this?”</p><p>“How do I-” He blinked and searched the ground with confused eyes. How did he know if he was lonely or not? He spent everyday in the Sanctum, he very rarely went out on dates and the like- he lives like a monk in an abbey- “How do I-I know if I’m- I have my studies and-and my books-”</p><p>“Any friends?”</p><p>“Yes of course, didn’t I tell you- the people I love- those are my friends.”</p><p>“When was the last you saw them?”</p><p>“I saw them…” He tapped his foot impatiently as he thought. He was getting grilled by his therapist and he couldn’t remember the last time he saw Peter or Tony or Pepper separately, let alone in the same room. He remembered the type of day, the weather, and their faces but...how far back was that? “I saw them in the spring. It was a warm day-not a cloud in the sky, not a blip on the map...nothing. It was a peaceful day.”</p><p>Now they were getting somewhere. The therapist leaned forward, forgetting about his notes for the moment and just listened to the breathing and tapping of Stephen, waiting for him to continue.</p><p>“And what happened that day?”</p><p>“It-it...ended too quickly. Peter, <em> god, </em>Peter he was so young-”</p><p>“And what-what was he to you?” He prodded. Stephen’s shoulders dropped, his voice grey shaky. The nervous tapping of his foot on the hardwood suddenly sounded louder as the sound reverberated through the tiny space. He noticed that Stephen’s hands moved from behind his back to his chest, the reflection in the window showing that he was holding them tightly to his chest as if praying. The seated man pulled back. He didn’t want to know anymore. Not this late at night, not while Strange was on the verge of a breakdown.</p><p>“He was like a-a <em> pupil </em> to me.” Stephen said a bit louder than needed. It was a sound that echoed. The overhead fan and light flickered on, the fan stuttered. Outside came a roll of thunder and a flash of blue lightning, followed by a drizzle of rain. </p><p>“Doctor, you don’t need to continue.”</p><p>“Why not? Isn’t this what you wanted? Information to <em> ‘help me help you’ </em>?” Stephen faced the other, looking wrecked- red eyes and trembling hands. He was tired, clearly, and any more confession would probably kill him. “You get what you want, then you realize you don’t want it.”</p><p>“Doctor it’s late. You’re not in the right state.”</p><p>“I never am, that should’ve been clear a long time ago.” He put his hands on his hips, then slid them into his pockets. He didn’t know what to do with them.</p><p>“Doctor, it’s going on eight.”</p><p>“I know. I should go. Lots of work...business and the like.”</p>
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